Before Purgatory
by Alien Explosion
Summary: [one shot] When Claude agrees to watch over the family while Noah’s in the hospital, he discovers what was always below the surface. ClaudeSandra.


_Taking a break to attempt writing romance. With a couple who has never been on-screen together. Yup. Contains spoilers for the film/book __Shane._

**Before Purgatory**

_December, 1998_

Claude Rains sometimes wondered what it was like to be Noah Bennet. It was similar to whatever thoughts went through Noah's head whenever Claude vanished and Noah got that stupidly awed look on his face.

Except, Claude didn't envision himself with the terrorizing geniality and awful fashion sense (just because one lived in the 90's didn't mean one had to actually _wear_ the neckties of the era). Because they worked together and basically had the same job description, Claude mostly speculated on the man's seemingly boring domestic life. It was a little strange; Uncle Claude was a regular guest at the Bennet home, and was like a second dad to the kids anyway. There really wasn't much to speculate on.

There's a difference, though, between a copycat and a substitute.

* * *

Noah got laid up in the hospital for a week because he was an idiot who thought he could handle a psychotic stretchy-teen just as well as he could any other civilian. Four hours of surgery later he still looked like hell, but now he resembled one of the higher levels, Claude assured him once he woke up. 

"Sandra was here earlier, but she went to pick up Claire from school," said Claude. "She should be back any minute now."

"What'd you tell her?" asked Noah, his eyes closed, tranquil from the morphine high.

"How do you feel about catching diphtheria from a Japanese office supply investor?"

He let out a soft chuckle. "Too rare for my taste. Think I would've preferred catching tuberculosis."

"Oh, that's a _fun_ one. Don't think that broken limbs and a concussion are usual symptoms, though."

"You could tell her that I lost a bet and I had to re-enact an episode of Benny Hill for you."

Claude scowled. That concussion hadn't affected the man's ability to piss him off. "For the last time, Benny Hill isn't the only thing British people watch."

"Jerry Lewis, then."

"That's the French. Get your damn stereotypes right, hick."

Claude noticed the door open before he could issue more verbal jabs. It was fortunate, because Sandra immediately walked in with Claire and Lyle in tow.

"Thank God, you're okay!" she exclaimed, hurrying over to her husband's side. She seized him and kissed his bandaged head gratefully; he winced slightly but it was clear that it hurt far more than he was playing it, to Claude's amusement. With his free hand, Noah ruffled Lyle's hair and touched Claire's little face comfortingly. His daughter then took it and held it in her own hand a little while, looking worried.

"Nothing to worry about guys," Noah reassured them, with a smile. "I'll be back up on my feet in no time." Regardless, Claire still held out her chocolate milk carton and had him sip from the straw, as if it were a miracle medicine only children put stock in.

"A hit-and-run accident!" said Sandra angrily, taking up the wife's responsibility of being appropriately enraged. "My God, it's so difficult to believe the way some people just _act_…causing such horrible pain to another person and just _walking_ away like it never happened, I just can't believe it…" She looked over at Claude thankfully, then went forward and embraced him suddenly. "I'm so glad you thought to call him, Claude, he might've been in that car for hours if you hadn't."

"You're generous with the thank yous, Sandra," Claude noted, returning the hug. "Like I said before, he was late for a sales presentation and I just decided to check up. That's all it was." Over Sandra's shoulder he saw Noah giving him a disapproving look; he had just heard what the cover story was, and he didn't like it. Claude sneered back, his way of silently answering "tough shit" to disapproving looks.

He swiftly converted back to a humble smile once Sandra withdrew from the hug. "I wish you wouldn't be so modest, Claude, that was a very serious situation! You saved Noah's life!"

"Yeah, Claude," said Noah, "don't be so _modest_."

"Guess that tends to be default with me," he answered, rubbing it in with a wink only Noah saw.

Claude left after awhile, making up some excuse about forms for work so that he could leave the family alone. He returned a few hours later to find Noah still awake, unfortunately.

"You totaled my car, didn't you."

Noah stated this point blank once Claude had entered the room.

He grinned bemusedly as he pulled up a chair. "No, the hit-and-run driver totaled your car. Justice will be served, mate, but not with false accusations."

"You needed evidence, so you had my car totaled while I was in surgery," he said, his face getting sour.

"It was the least half-assed explanation I could come up with for a broken arm, leg, and a concussion. Honestly man, don't get so strung up about it, the Company'll reimburse you with the insurance anyway."

"But I never gave you permission to total my car."

"And _I_ never gave you permission to chase that kid into an abandoned factory," he snapped irritably. "He got away, just so you know. And Thompson's given the assignment to someone else now, so don't complain, it serves you right." Claude hadn't 'lectured' Noah for a while, but this time the man just got too smug, too sloppy. He deserved the head-deflation.

Lacking any more will for arrogance, Noah shut his eyes in conscious defeat, lying back remorsefully for a few moments.

"Apparently I'm going to be here for a while," he said at last.

Claude accepted the change in subject begrudgingly. "Don't worry, the paper factory'll run itself. It always does, actually."

"I'm not wondering about the paper factory." Noah had opened his eyes and was looking at Claude seriously now. "Claude, could I ask you to…"

"Of course," said Claude at once. "No need to ask."

"And you would-"

"Every night, and whenever I have free time."

"And my-"

"_Relax_, friend, I'll take good care of them. Just to be clear, we're talking about the gun cabinet in your office, right?"

Noah snorted. "I'll thank you not to refer to my children as automatic weapons. And with Sandra…"

Claude's brow furrowed, now uncertain what his friend was getting at. "What about her?"

He sighed deeply. "Come on, you saw her," he said, looking faintly sorry once more. "She's obviously very stressed out about me right now. I can reassure her all I want but I know she's going to spend all her time worrying and ruminating at home. I wanted to know if you could just…I don't know, distract her a little, if you could. I don't want her to worry." He stared imploringly at Claude. "Just make sure she's happy."

"How the hell am I supposed to go about doing that?"

"Oh please, Claude." He rolled his eyes, "Sandra thinks you're the most charming man in the state of Texas."

"Really? Over _your _winning wit?" Noah simply decided to wait expectantly for Claude's answer instead of fielding _that_ jab. "Score one for us immigrants, then. All right, I'll see what I can do." Raising his right hand mockingly, he said, "I hereby pledge to try my hardest at being a substitute Bennet this week."

Noah arched a brow bemusedly. "Substitute Bennet, huh?"

"Oh sure, I'll even go out and get myself a nerdy wardrobe and everything. I'm wildly enthusiastic about the whole business."

He closed his eyes, grinning. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

* * *

Claude had dinner at the Bennet home that night, and courtesy of his non-stop arsenal of jokes and goofy magic tricks, they all had an extremely good time. He stayed even longer than he usually did; helping clear the table while Sandra got the kids ready for bed. 

It was a little funny for Sandra, walking into the kitchen and finding Claude standing over the sink, sleeves rolled up and donning an apron. For this, Claude was the victim of much teasing, although he honestly couldn't understand why.

"First-class _chefs_ wear aprons, y'know," he pointed out, handing her some plates for the washer.

She grinned good-naturedly. "But you're not cooking, now are you?"

"Oy, I happen to like these slacks, thank you very much. And I still don't get why you're gigglin' so much!"

She continued to take amusement at his confusion, with a very coy and girlish laugh. "Oh, I don't know, It's just…_funny_, Claude! I mean, whenever you come over for dinner you're always wearing such nice suits, looking very handsome and telling the kids all about your adventures in England and Europe. But now here you are in an apron doing dishes."

"I did dishes at home in England. Still do. My life's not as spontaneous as you'd think, Sandra." That was a lie, of course, but he was particularly surprised that she'd never thought of him as someone who did something as mundane as housework. Noah certainly did chores, why wouldn't he do them as well?

"I just loved that story you told earlier, about Rome," she said enthusiastically. "It sounds like such an exciting city."

He nodded as he salvaged a crusted baking pan from the dishwater. "Yep, at 22 I had my own little Roman Holiday, you could say. Didn't run into Audrey Hepburn, sadly."

"Oh, that movie is why I have always wanted to go to Rome!" She looked wistful as she arranged some plates on the dishwasher rack. "I've always wanted to travel all around Europe, actually, but that never happened."

"No reason why you can't go on a vacation once the kids are older," Claude said reasonably.

Sandra smiled at the support, but shook her head certainly. "Oh, but it's so expensive. And the kids have been begging to go to Disneyland and all of those amusement parks, so if we vacation anywhere, that's probably what we'll do. And then there's college to save up for, and the mortgage…believe me, Claude, it would've been a heck of a lot easier to do that when I was younger."

Claude wasn't sure why, but he was starting to feel extraordinarily sympathetic and uncomfortable, all at once. Well, he _could_ be sure why, but he told himself that diluting himself a proper explanation for the thought wouldn't be worth the trouble.

"Que sera, sera," he said, dismissing the subject and launching into a tirade on Brillo and its ineffectiveness on baking pan grease.

* * *

The next day was Saturday, and he came over again to spend the latter part of his morning watching cartoons with Claire as Lyle napped. During the commercials, she would play with the stuffed Damon Bear he'd given her for her fifth birthday. 

He picked up the bear and marched it after her, making mean growling noises that somehow failed to scare her, as much as he tried. "Uncle Claude, Tom and Jerry are back on," she insisted distractedly.

"Ohh, but I shall shred your innards, Claire Bennet!" he proclaimed.

She glowered at him, actually looking very insulted. "You can't do that!"

"And why not?"

"Because Tom and Jerry are back on." And she resumed her entrancement with the television. Claude couldn't help but grin. The girl had her own set of rules. She was a real wonder.

The next few minutes they spent watching animated animals waging living room battles with household appliances. Soon a commercial about infant food came on, and Claire's attention was back to Claude again.

"Where do babies come from?" She inquired.

Claude stared. Somehow, the seven year-old was intent on making this week difficult for him, he just knew it. "I don't know, Claire."

"You have to know, you're a grown-up!" For all the supposedly id-based functioning, children came up with great arguments sometimes.

"Look, you see _me_ with any babies? No, you don't. You know why I don't have any?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't know where they come from." She looked at him skeptically. Good God, she could see through bullshit, too. "Tell you what though," he continued, "you can go ahead and ask your daddy the minute he gets home. I'm sure he'd love to explain everything about it to you."

At the mention of her father, Claire's eyes dropped to the ground, and her hands toyed with Damon Bear absently. Claude wrapped an arm around her shoulder, concerned. "Hey now, what's wrong, honey?"

Her eyes raised to his. "Is my daddy going to be okay?"

"'Course he is," Claude smiled. "He's a tough guy, your dad. Even tougher than Damon Bear. And he even told you so, remember?"

"I guess he did," she said, but she didn't have the capacity to fake being convinced yet.

He tried to think of a way to cheer her up. As Uncle Claude it was his job, after all. "D'you want some chocolate milk?"

"I don't feel like it," she answered glumly, and Claude actually started to feel like a bit of a failure at this substituting thing.

* * *

Claude had just gotten home from pulling some extra hours at the office (a fantastic yet unfortunately necessary feat for him) when he heard a buzzing noise in the living room It took him a few seconds to realize that the doorbell had rung. Not that he'd never heard his own doorbell before, but his had such a distinct ring and was pushed so rarely that he just wasn't used to the sound. He opened the door, and there was Sandra standing in the hallway with a dish of something in her hands. 

"Sandra!" he said, actually surprised. "What is it, 8:30? What're you doing here so late?" He took the opportunity to peer through the thick glass dish cover that obscured whatever delectable treat she'd made.

"I think that's a little obvious, as do you," she answered, noticing the eager way he eyed the food. "You didn't drop by for dinner, and I'd already made it, so I thought I'd just bring some over."

"Aw, bless you, Sandra, you're far too nice to little old me." He hesitated a second, but he couldn't bring himself to disperse any unkind behavior towards her. "Please, come in, come in."

She stepped inside, and looked all around Claude's apartment curiously; she was one of the few guests he'd had over in some time. Claude wasn't much for entertaining company. The only time anyone ever came to visit was whenever he forced Noah to come over and watch Manchester games on his horrendously priced satellite channels. Claude was now glad he had a habit of at least keeping the place moderately tidy (and leaving his incriminating work tools in a safe in his bedroom).

But he was suddenly disappointed with himself for not really fixing up the flat. Sandra cast sad eyes on his barren walls, stopping only on the one houseplant he decided to purchase on a whim while at the grocery store once. Still green and healthy. After that, she saw his chess set, still in the middle of a game from earlier in the week, his coat rack, which held only a leather jacket and an ugly fedora he'd only worn once or twice, and a pile of mail and paperwork sitting on his desk, where he obviously spent most of his time.

Now she was looking curiously at the three tall bookshelves sitting in one corner of the living room next to the desk, each packed with many books on a variety of subjects.

"I didn't know you were such a reader, Claude," Sandra said, her eyes running across _The Evolution of Species _and _The Division of Labour in Society. _"And I thought_ I_ was going to the library a lot more lately!"

"Between those and the idiot box I've got all the distractions I need here in my flat," he replied.

"But having such a huge collection," she went on, "and your TV too, it looks really high-tech. You must spend a fortune on these!"

"'S no different than Noah's. You've got to remember though, I'm not the one supporting a family." But Noah actually received an additional 'subsidy' on his paycheck—for taking care of Company 'property'. The cold, sad reminder the Company liked to issue the man every other week.

The thought depressed Claude, who decided to direct attention away from his even more depressing home. "So what's for dinner tonight, eh?"

Completely forgetting about the warm dish she held in her hands, Sandra brightened and followed Claude over to the dining table. "It's southern fried chicken, my mom's recipe," she said, placing it on the table and opening the cover, allowing a cloud of steam to escape. "Gosh, I didn't think it'd be this hot still! You'll probably want to let it cool a bit before you start eating. You didn't eat already, did you?"

If snarfing down two bags of old Doritos from the vending machine at work didn't count as eating, then Claude was truthful as he nodded. "Looks delicious," he smiled.

"I hope you like it. Lyle ate it all up, he didn't even fuss or-"

She paused mid-sentence as a boom of thunder rang out over the apartment, followed by a rapid pattering noise on the walls. Claude drew some blinds to find his window already looking like someone was aiming a garden hose directly at it.

"Would ya look at that," he mused.

"Oh _no_, I really hate Odessa sometimes!" she exclaimed, coming over to the window. "These Texas showers, you never ever see them coming…It wasn't even that cloudy when I went out…"

"Think it'd be best if you wait here till it rides out," said Claude, unable to see the road clearly.

"Oh, but the kids! Our elderly neighbor is watching them, I can't leave him at the house all-"

"—But you won't," he reassured her. "It's a Texas shower, right? It never lasts long, don't worry."

Sandra conceded, and called the house to make sure everything was okay while Claude attended to the tea he had been preparing before she came. He came over to the couch, two cups in hand.

"It's not Southern iced tea, but it's refreshing," he said, handing her a cup.

"Oh, thank you so much, Claude." She sipped, while Claude wondered what to do for a second. He only had the one couch, no armchairs or loveseats or whatever the hell else he could've purchased. He regretted not buying any of it now. Having no choice, he sat next to Sandra, feeling slightly awkward but not showing it.

"This is green tea, right?" she asked. "Where did you get it? I've never tried this variety."

"China," Claude replied nonchalantly.

He received a look of wide-eyed incredulity. "You're joking! _No_ way, you are pulling my leg again, Claude Rains."

"_Yes_ way!" he said defensively. "I've got a friend who's traveling abroad, he sent it to me! That's genuine Chinese tea you're chugging down right there."

"That's _amazing_." She sipped some more, closing her eyes and trying to taste the flavor before swallowing. "This really is something." She grinned. "So, what's the price of tea in China?"

Claude laughed. "Well worth it, I can tell you."

"I've never known anyone who lived in China."

"Ah well. Just another friend I met while rambling about as a lad." He wasn't certain why he'd said that. The whole thing was a lie—he'd actually procured it himself during a Company trip a few months ago. It wasn't at all necessary to elaborate. What was he doing, exactly?

"More about your little adventures," Sandra smiled.

"It's nothing to write home about, really," he insisted. "I was young and didn't know what to do with myself, so I traveled around and did odd jobs to earn money. Hardly glamorous."

"But it just sounds so…independent," she said dreamily, "and freeing."

And it had been. Claude didn't deny that. He nodded in agreement. "There's hardly any planning involved. Just spontaneous wandering, finding new people and places around every corner, getting to actually touch the mountains and waterfalls I'd only read about in books." He set his cup down, and stared off into space, wistful. "Youth is pretty brilliant when you don't know what happens next. It's very dangerous and wonderful at the same time, there's a certain, y'know, _thrill_ inherent in it all. People don't realize…"

The thinking aloud trailed off, because he had looked back up and found that Sandra had been watching him as he spoke. She was extremely attentive, engaged in his every word. And then he had turned to look back at her, and she was now staring into his eyes. He stared back and saw a whole mix of _something _in hers. Something wanting to draw forward, and something wanting to sit back where she was. A torrential conflict of something stirring in her anxious yet magnificently beautiful expression.

Thoughts sailed haphazardly into Claude's mind. She looked _gorgeous_ in this light; he'd always thought she was beautiful, but somehow now, under his apartment's ruddy lighting…He felt uncomfortable sitting in his position on the couch; he shifted positions slightly, not unlocking his stare…She looked conflicted…Was _he_ conflicted? Strangely, no, not in the least…When was the last time he'd actually had _time_ for a love life, anyway?

There was one other person Sandra _was_ thinking—or perhaps trying _not _to?—think about. Claude knew, because he was thinking about him too, but not really. He was thinking about something he'd said, and when you had morals as flexible as Claude's, it was extraordinarily easy to dissociate words from the speaker.

"_Just make sure she's happy…"_

He'd always respected Sandra, probably more than her husband did. But she still needed care, like most women. And she needed comfort, and happiness. And in this moment, it was all Claude wanted to give her.

Not wanting her to remain in a state of panicked confusion any longer, Claude made the decision for Sandra. He leaned forward and kissed her.

She was startled and scared, he could tell, but a reassuring caress of her hand was all he needed to gain trust. She kissed back, and it was astonishingly wonderful and invigorating for both. Hesitant fingers kneaded through his hair, and the skin on his scalp tingled at the gentle touch. His own hands held her arms near the shoulders now, pulling her closer as they continued.

It went on for ages, almost. The entire time it felt so natural, so mutual. Claude's hand drifted sideways slightly, and Sandra didn't even mind it resting on her chest now; in fact, it seemed strangely comforting to her, and she relaxed even more as he caressed her.

Their enthusiasm caused her to withdraw back to breathe after awhile, and with the intake of air she also received a shocking dose of what she was doing. Sandra sat back, staring at the bewildered Claude with clear mortification.

"I don't…" she stuttered. "I mean I…I have to be going…" she stood up.

"Sandra, wait." Claude started. "Sandra, I'm sorry, wait…the rain, you shouldn't-"

But the front door slammed shut, and Claude was left alone, sitting very still on his couch.

He sat there a long time, before remembering the chicken and getting up. It was cold now. He glanced out the window; it had stopped raining. Texas showers. He guessed Sandra got home alright.

Leaving the chicken sitting on the table, he picked up the phone.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Claude was at the Bennet residence, and he saw Sandra waiting for him on the porch with arms crossed and an apprehensive expression on her face. He got to the foot of the porch and they exchanged awkward greetings, and for a few moments, that was all. She finally invited him to come up and sit on a patio chair, more absent-mindedly than courteously. 

"I wanted to apologize properly," said Claude, as she sat down on the porch swing. "Didn't think it right to leave it till morning…it would've made for too much thought over a thoughtless thing."

"That's kind," she answered quietly. "But it doesn't mean either of us won't think about it endlessly anyway."

This was true, and Claude thought it further testament to what a fine woman she was. But he was here, and he figured he might as well do what he came to do. "I'm sorry, Sandra. I shouldn't have done that. I should've had more discretion tonight."

"You weren't the only one, Claude."

"Hey, wait a minute," he protested immediately, "it was me! _I_ was the one who _started_ the—it wasn't your fault at all!" But it was clear she didn't believe his words. After all, how _long_ had they kissed, exactly?

"I'm sorry as well," she started. "To you, and the kids, and…" A stifled choke came out instead of the name Claude was expecting, and the view of her now sobbing into her fists brought the realization that _he wasn't the problem._

"Sandra!" he said, holding her back so she wouldn't slip off the porch swing onto her knees. "Sandra, what's wrong?"

"I didn't…I didn't feel awful at _all_ during that minute." She was breathing in short bursts, struggling to regain composure. "I actually felt…selfish and wonderful and…really _happy_, for the first time in a long while. But then when I pulled back, what I was doing and everything else, it all just _struck_ me at the same time…and I couldn't…I couldn't…"

He patted her back very slightly with one hand; he wasn't certain what was acceptable and what was make-out session-inducing anymore. "…What do you mean, everything else?"

"Well, I mean…" She cut off, but suddenly, with tears spilling off her cheeks, she asked, very agonized, "Did you know that he's completely schizoid about Claire?"

Claude was taken aback. The change in subject was very abrupt. So, he realized, this was mostly about Noah. Claude wasn't the problem at all. He was the—well, not the solution, certainly not, but what she saw as the comforting, romantic alternative.

He was the substitute.

Sandra was clearly distressed. And the last time Claude checked, "schizoid" wasn't exactly part of the Southern vernacular. She did mention going to the library a lot more lately, though…

"You know, I don't know if I should-"

"—Don't worry," he insisted immediately. "He's not going to hear a word of this."

"Sometimes…" she started, inhaling deeply, "sometimes, Claire is his little princess. He'll play with her and talk with her about school and they'll share chocolate milk and she'll just adore him. Other times, he…he won't even _look_ at her, Claude. He'll insist that he has too much paperwork to do, or is too tired…sometimes he won't even bother to explain it.

"And he only does this to _her_, not even me or Lyle. I've had to give Claire so many _excuses_ for him, and I just, I…" She stumbled on the words, but they came out, firm and clear. "I can't do that any longer!

"You know, the other day…" She shut her eyes, as if dealing with recounting the memory was hard enough without the winter air and frozen humidity biting at her face. "The other day…she came up to him in the office and asked for a bedtime story. She had to ask him _three _times before he told her he was too busy, and even then Noah didn't even _turn around_. Claude, I…"

She glanced at him momentarily before dropping her gaze to the porch again, her tone quiet when she spoke again. "I actually wanted to _slap_ him. …I didn't, I just…rationalized it some more, told myself he was being overworked. But I just don't know what to do any more…"

Claude watched her cry in silent distress and shock. The whole thing should've seemed _invasive _for him to listen to¸ after all, this was the first time she'd ever shared anything so devastating to her heart with him. But Claude didn't feel this at all, and it wasn't because of the long-developed immunity to invasive feelings that came from being a practiced invisible man. It was because now he was angry. Absolutely enraged. How, he wondered, could that bastard _ever_ treat his own daughter like-

"Is he seeing someone else?"

The question came from fifty miles north of nowhere, and it caught him off-guard like a missile launched from the same place, imploding any of his previous rage. She'd continued to stare at the floorboards, unmoving as she'd asked, and if it hadn't been asked in her soft, distinct voice, he might've wondered if he'd imagined it.

"No," he answered, surprised but firm. "He's not, Sandra, believe me. I know him."

"He tells you everything, doesn't he?"

Though still winded at the previous question, Claude almost snorted in jest. It was an absurd habit to attribute to Noah Bennet. "Not _everything_, I mean, that's just the way we men are, y'see, but-"

"Then how do you know?"

"Because he _isn't_." Claude said adamantly. "I know he isn't, and so do you."

He could tell she knew he was right. But hearing him say it just made her feel far, far guiltier for what had transpired earlier. It was clear in her expression, and he didn't want to see it. He halfway wished he'd answered yes earlier to stop the missile from nowhere.

"Then do you know what's wrong with him?" she finally asked.

Oh, Claude knew.

What was wrong with Noah Bennet, was that he couldn't man up and get over his goddamn angst about Claire.

He was making an attempt at the painless way through the inevitable, but paternal urges weren't exactly making it fucking painless for _anyone_.

"It may seem odd to you, Sandra," he started, "but work can get to a man sometimes. I mean, how long's he been at it, seven years? Paper gets tedious after awhile, believe me. He'll get over it."

"Did you get over it?" she asked, finally looking up.

No, he hadn't, actually. And it wasn't because of tedium. Working at the Company was _far_ from being tedious.

"It comes and goes," he answered finally, knowing that she wouldn't believe a yes after all she knew and revered about his youthful traipsing about. "Eventually, you find what makes it worth it. Noah's got you and the kids, that's what makes it worth it."

"And you? What makes the paper factory worth it for you?"

He almost couldn't lie effectively. He wasn't sure what he would've said if expected to speak truthfully, but he was very certain it wasn't the same reason he'd had when he first started in the paper business.

"Ah y'know, continuing to see all the people and the places, but for a stable salary and medical insurance this time," he said finally. "Job security, to be exact. We all sell out eventually." To halt her prying, he added, "Of course, it's nice I get to hang out with you lot so often."

Sandra smiled at last, to Claude's relief. "You've always been there for us, Claude. You're here now."

"I suppose."

"Could you…talk to him?" she asked, sounding hesitant but trusting. "Help him get over his rough patch?"

He nodded resolutely, although he couldn't pinpoint why he did so. He wasn't a chivalrous man, not naturally, but he'd always respected Sandra and so the courtesy—among other now apparent hidden feelings—just came as a natural response to her affability. Claude later resolved that he did it more out of concern for the family than anything else.

Grass crunched behind him on the front lawn, and Claude, aware of its source, did not turn around. But he could see the fear growing in Sandra's eyes as the dark young man walked out of the night and approached the porch, right on time.

"Who is that?" Sandra whispered, suddenly uneasy at the Haitian's presence.

"A friend from the factory," Claude answered, finally turning to look at him as the man slowly climbed the steps. "Our office tech, you could say. He's come to help us out."

The Haitian motioned at Claude, and put his hands out with palms up, nodding towards Sandra. Uncertain, Claude took Sandra's hands in his, and the Haitian confirmed with another nod. It was best not to break ritual, Claude figured. "I'm sorry about this, Sandra, I really am. I swear to you though," he looked her directly in the eye, "I _will_ talk to him. But for the time being, please just stay still, and trust me."

Sandra's eyes went from the unmoving Haitian to Claude's cheerless countenance, and she became even more apprehensive. "Claude, I still don't understand. What are you doing?"

"Nothing Noah wouldn't do." And those bright, inconsolable eyes continued to watch him anxiously until a dark hand descended over them.

* * *

"Do you think Shane dies?" 

Claude glanced at the TV screen, saw the cowboy slumped over and riding off into the sunset as the annoying boy continued to yell for him to come back. He'd never seen the movie, but he suddenly remembered that in the original book, Shane was involved in an unrequited love triangle subplot with the farmer and his wife before riding off into the sunset at the end.

Well now. The folks at the movie channel certainly had a fine sense of irony.

"It's supposed to be ambiguous, isn't it?" Claude answered. "Left up to interpretation?"

"Yeah, supposedly. But I don't think he dies."

"Aww, you're a real romantic, friend," he laughed. "Were you hoping that the guy continued to be a hero, going from town to town and keeping the legend alive?"

Noah took the cold, logical approach, sadly. "I don't think he dies because it's too simple a way out," he reasoned. "Reality doesn't cut off at the most convenient end of the story." Claude wished he didn't agree so much with that statement. "What do you think?" Noah asked.

"My opinion is that it's ambiguous."

There was that disapproving look again. "That's not an opinion."

"I don't have to have one. If some dead filmmaker decided to be cheeky and try to incite debate over his ending shot, I don't have to humor the goddamn prick. That's my opinion."

Now Noah went from disapproval to mild surprise. "Claude, I was just _asking_. Are you alright?"

"You know I hate it when you try to be annoying," he covered.

Noah smirked. "Just trying to reciprocate appropriately. So, did you go over last night?"

"Nah, had to finish the mission report. Plus, there was a big storm, if you hadn't noticed."

"Oh _goodness_," he said sarcastically, "getting shut inside while pretending to do paperwork. Did Mr. Claude Rains actually have a boring night?"

"Tremendously boring."

_Save for the fact that I got to second base with your wife._

It was a small victory for Claude. And he didn't feel sorry about it at all, seeing as how he'd discovered what a dick of a father his friend was being. Plus, everything was back to normalcy anyway, thanks to the Haitian.

What Claude did feel sorry about was actually having to _use_ the man's ability. Not just on Sandra, but on the elderly neighbor who babysat the kids, in order to cover tracks. Memory erasure on a man who already had memories streaming out of his head like a colander was assuredly detrimental to his health. And who knew what it would do to Sandra in the future? But it was another questionable Company method he could file away in his already packed cabinet of unsaid grievances and complaints.

He barely noticed the two empty chocolate milk cartons sitting on the adjustable meal table. "Was Claire here earlier?"

Noah nodded, and grinned proudly. "She got an A on her spelling test. You should've seen how excited she was."

At least near-death experiences seemed to bring father and daughter to better terms, if only temporarily. "Yeah? Always thought she was a bright one." And sincere, he added, "She misses you, Noah."

He inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes. "I know."

Claude didn't know how to continue after that. He'd promised Sandra he'd talk some sense into her husband, but he wasn't about to do it and give their little heart-to-heart chat away, especially since he was the only one who remembered it. After a few minutes of mentally grappling with himself, he concluded that this wasn't the best time.

Whenever _that_ was, well, Claude could only hope he would recognize it.

"I'm going to take a vacation," said Noah suddenly, eyes opened.

Claude stared. "_You_ want to take a vacation?"

There were a number of things that startled Claude about it, but the seeming spontaneity of the decision just about toppled any other surprising aspect.

"Christmas is in a few weeks, right?" Noah asked. "I figure, why not take Sandra and the kids on a road trip? How far is Disneyland?"

Claude continued to stare. "Eighteen hours. _Getting_ there."

"Okay, someplace closer then."

"Like where, _Midland_? What're Claire and Lyle gonna do, play in the ruddy oil fields?"

"_Dallas_, then," Noah suggested, growing annoyed. "There's plenty to do over there. We can go for a week; I'll ask Sandra what she thinks later."

Claude frowned. "You know Thompson's not gonna like it."

"So I'll ask him myself. Tell the bastard to swing by one of these days."

"Don't think I will," he replied simply.

"What?" he asked, suddenly derailed from his train of enthusiastic ideas.

"I said, I don't think I'll ask him, because I already filed the paperwork." Claude's hand slipped into his coat and pulled out the necessary time off forms, all filled out and ready for Noah's signature.

Noah was at a rare loss of words for a second, both surprised and slightly suspicious of Claude's intentions. "_You_ did paperwork?" he retorted. "And how did you know-"

"—Well Jesus, I didn't exactly know you had a secret desire to ride Astro Mountain. I was just going to suggest to you that you take some time off after you get out of here."

His eyes traveled from the papers to his partner. "And if I refused?"

Claude winked mischievously. "Don't you remember who taught you forgery?"

Noah shook his head, grinning. "Only the man I owe a _huge_ one to."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll pay in kind, mate," he replied.

* * *

Years later, sometime after he'd been shot off a bridge but before he'd been assaulted and demanded for help by an embarrassingly adolescent young man, Claude decided that Shane did die. 

You could live in a world surrounded by the people you loved, even if you could never truthfully love them. But you could never live in a world after that. That was just purgatory.

Claude Rains knew this better than anyone.

**The End.**

_The chocolate milk motif (I guess) was taken from the zany discussion in the HRG thread at the TWoP Forums. The ship idea was inspired by the scene in Genesis where Sandra tells Claire she's always wanted to go to Europe and me realizing that Claude is of the European persuasion._


End file.
